


triple threat

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Brief Violence, Crack and Angst, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Kinda, M/M, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Set sometime before IW, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-14 20:07:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18059198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: There are three parts to James Buchanan Barnes. The first is Bucky Barnes before the war. The second is Sergeant James during the war. And the third piece to the fucked up puzzle is the Winter Soldier, after the war.They all had their own agendas: Bucky wanted to find Steve, Sarge wanted to find beer with a pack of cigarettes on the side, and Vanya—as he insisted to be called—wanted to find peace.





	triple threat

**Author's Note:**

> before we get started, does anyone want to get out??
> 
> kidding. before we get started, here are several disclaimers:  
> \- i’m not a professional, so my portrayal of dissociative personality disorder (did) isn’t accurate.  
> \- this isn’t intended to romanticize did!!  
> \- i don’t speak russian, so i apologize in advance for butchering the language. i consulted good ‘ol google translate. feel free to correct me!!  
> \- i don’t own these characters!!  
> \- this is my first stucky fic. sorry if everyone’s ooc.
> 
> translations are in the end notes.
> 
> i hope you enjoy!!

There are three parts to James Buchanan Barnes. The first is Bucky Barnes before the war. The second is Sergeant James during the war. And the third piece to the fucked up puzzle is the Winter Soldier, after the war.

Bucky always tried to maintain control, but often met resistance by the other two. They all had their own agendas: Bucky wanted to find Steve, Sarge wanted to find beer with a pack of cigarettes on the side, and Vanya—as he insisted to be called—wanted to find peace.

_We can find peace in Steve_ , he’d said. _Maybe even share a drink or two if we’re lucky_. Sarge had taken his words literally, dryly joking that Bucky just wanted an excuse to indirectly kiss Steve. Vanya had, unsurprisingly, stayed quiet.

Currently, they were engaged in a fierce feud at a cafe. Sarge wanted black coffee, Vanya wanted a beverage with optimal nourishment, and Bucky wanted them to _choose already because they’re holding up the queue._

They were starting to attract unwanted eyes. Customers were “discreetly” watching, glancing up from their phone screens periodically to see a man arguing with himself.

Even the barista was giving them the stink eye.

Feeling uncomfortable, Vanya pulled their baseball cap low to shadow their face. Sarge scoffed and, in an effort to spite him, forced them to straighten their posture. Bucky muttered a reproachful “knock it off” and bought the first item on the menu, disappointing them both.

Even seating arrangements warranted disagreements. Sarge wanted to sit near a pair of pretty dames, Vanya wanted to sit near the exit, and Bucky just wanted to _sit_ somewhere.

When they had finally claimed a seat (near the window pane to scout for potential threats), Sarge took an experimental sip and blanched at the unexpected sweetness. Sighing exaggeratedly, he leaned back in their chair and kicked their feet up onto the table. “Never gonna get used to coffee that ain’t bitter.”

“Well, get used to it, because we’re buying more.” Bucky brought the cup to their lips, miming a drinking motion. Miming, because Vanya had stopped their hand without warning.

“What the hell?” Bucky tried to take a sip again, and for some dumbass reason, Vanya thought it was an invitation to completely obliterate the mug.

One minute, the porcelain cup was in perfect condition. The next, it was shattered to unsalvageable smithereens.

Hot coffee spewed everywhere, staining the front of their thermal shirt and soaking it thoroughly.

It was absolute chaos.

They watched as the liquid dripped sadly over the edge of the table.

Aw, Bucky was actually looking forward to that.

Meanwhile, Sarge was pissed—and rightfully so. “You listen _real_ close. Sorry we don’t wanna drink your damn smoothie again. Christ, you’re seventy years older than me n’ Barnes. Quit acting like some overgrown—”

Vanya forced them to turn their head mid-sentence, and whatever Sarge was going to say next was forgotten because there, jogging towards the entrance of the very cafe they were lounging in, was the love-best friend-mission of their life.

“Oh, motherfucking fuck,” Sarge said.

“Yeah,” Bucky said.

“он мой мир,” [1] Vanya said, before his presence vanished from their minds, leaving the two most inept at espionage to fend for themselves.

“Should’ve known. Always leaves us when we need him the most,” Bucky said—then snapped because he felt Sarge’s presence _also_ beginning to dwindle. “Sarge, don’t think I can’t feel that.”

“At ease, Barnes,” Sarge cooed in an attempt to pretend like he hadn’t just tried to bail three seconds ago. “‘Sides, he ain’t even seen us. Think we can sneak outta here?”

“Can’t we just talk to him?” Bucky asked, despite knowing why. It was far too risky. To be with Steve meant to be captured by the Avengers, and none of the three jumped at the prospect of surrendering their freedom again. “Let him know we’re doing okay.”

“No can do, pal. Remember the last time we tried?” Unfortunately, he did. In their previous encounter, something had triggered Vanya and the next thing they knew, they were choking the life out of Steve. It had taken both Sarge and Bucky to break Vanya out of his trance.

“We can at least buy him something.”

“You fucking kidding me? We barely got enough dough for our own shit.” Sarge had been frantically wiping up the evidence of their crime scene, collecting a soggy pile of napkins. “My ma must be rolling in her grave. She hated when I didn’t clean up my mess.”

“We’ll leave a big tip next time,” Bucky promised as his gaze wandered to the object of their affections. Steve was chatting with the barista, leaning slightly over the counter with a smile sweeter than the drink they’d purchased.

Sarge sighed, redirected their gaze to the exit, and ushered them out the door.

—

“We are _not_ stalking him.”

“Yessir. We’re just following him.” Sarge grinned like the cat that got the cream. “‘Course the punk would run eight miles for some pound cake.”

“У него хороший вкус,” [2] Vanya agreed, appearing as suddenly as he’d vanished. Luckily, he’d arrived in the nick of time to flatten them against the wall, putting his handy super soldier senses to good use.

“Goddamn kid,” Sarge cursed at the toddler who’d nearly given away their position, pointing them out to Steve. “What? Never seen the Winter Soldier before?”

“белый Волк,” [3] Vanya grunted.

“No, you big lughead. ‘White Wolf’ sounds stupid.” They were on the move again, keeping close to the walls. “Hey, Barnes, which one you fancy more?”

“None. Shut up.” Bucky stooped behind a newspaper stand, crouching low on their haunches to stay out of sight. The millennial running the stand had no problem seeing them, though.

“Um. Can I help you?” Vanya shot her a piercing glare, before vaulting over the stand and madly dashing into the alleyway, using the momentum to swing up onto the fire escape. “Okay.”

They barrel rolled onto the rooftop adjacent to Steve’s apartment just as the man himself appeared in the window, skin slick and sweaty blonde hair matted to his forehead. He peeled off his criminally tight shirt and used it to wipe at his gleaming forehead, biceps rippling under the sunlight.

“красивая,” [4] Vanya voiced for all of them.

“Not the word I’d use.” Sarge slid out their tongue to wet their bottom lip like they were eyeing a juicy slab of meat. “I’m feeling more like sex—”

“Tone it down with the gay, okay?” Bucky interjected as Steve made his way towards—what he assumed—was the bathroom. “This is my best friend we’re talking about here.”

“Hell no! I ain’t queer. Straight as a line,” Sarge denied, even as he stared at the bathroom door like he could somehow see through it if he looked hard enough.

“Whatever you say,” Bucky said, not bothering to hide his dubiousness. 

“Он не использует душ,” [5] Vanya stated plainly, craning their neck to listen with more intent.

“Pal, I know it’s called a bathroom, but bathing ain’t the only thing you can do,” Sarge said in an extremely condescending tone. “He could be using the can, jerking off—choose your pick.”

“No, wait. He’s not in there anymore.” Bucky suddenly felt exposed, vulnerable. He stood up abruptly when realization dawned on him. “Shit.”

“Он здесь,” [6] Vanya said at the same moment Steve softly called, “Bucky?”

“No!” Sarge shouted—which technically wasn’t wrong—before flinging them off the roof and plummeting ten stories down into moving traffic. They crash-landed onto the hood of a car, abolishing the vehicle beyond repair.

“My baby!” The driver cried out in despair at his newly flattened Chevrolet Cruze. They blinked dumbfoundedly at the car, then at him.

“Bucky!” Steve, the reckless idiot, tried to follow them down. Romanoff caught him by the elbow and shook her head, lips moving as she said something to him.

They didn’t stick around to find out what.

—

“He only says your name,” Sarge grumbled as they stepped through the double doors, boarding the subway. “Bucky this, Bucky that. What about James, huh? Spice it up a little.”

“Никто не говорит мое имя,” [7] Vanya responded a little gloomily, but otherwise kept a flat tone. They latched onto a support bar, gripping it with more force than necessary.

“He doesn’t know about you two,” Bucky rationalized, taking a moment to survey the compact subway car. Thankfully, New Yorkers didn’t give a shit for a man talking to himself, desensitized by the constant occurrence of superheroes.

“Introduce us then.” Sarge sniffed indignantly. “Your ma never teach you manners?”

“We have the same ma,” Bucky said matter-of-factly, like this was common knowledge among mortal men.

“Мы делаем?” [8] Vanya inquired and was promptly ignored, which was not uncommon among Bucky and Sarge.

“As I was _saying_ , he should say my name more,” Sarge continued with his pointless suggestion, before grinning lazily. “Maybe wring it out of him, if y’know what I mean.”

“Sarge, we’re in public,” Bucky admonished, shooting an apologetic smile at a women with her kid practically hanging off her arm. “Don’t mind him. He doesn’t have a filter.”

“Only filter society’s got these days’re the Snapchat ones.” Sarge posed, throwing up a peace sign in the background of a teenager’s selfie. “Aw, shit, think she’ll post that online?”

“I don’t think she’ll include the location,” Bucky said, mostly to convince himself. They weren’t ready to confront Steve yet, considering the reason that they were taking the subway in the first place was to _avoid_ him. “If she does, Vanya can destroy her phone.”

“Сделано.” [9] Vanya held up what remained of the cellular device, before dumping it lifelessly into the speechless teenager’s hands.

“More efficient than a hydraulic press,” Bucky commented with an approving nod. It was the third object they’d crushed thus far. Now wasn’t _that_ an interesting number?

“Sure is,” came a familiar voice on their left.

“Samuel Thomas Wilson, alias Falcon,” Bucky identified, eyes flitting around to determine the best route for escape.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” Sam said as he traded spots with the still shocked teenager. “Alias love of Captain America’s life.”

“What,” They all said in a monotonous chorus. Even Vanya.

“You have no idea how obsessed he is.” Sam rolled his eyes, which were obscured by a pair of tinted sunglasses. By far one of the saddest disguises they’d ever seen. “Seriously, dude’s got a whole diary dedicated to you.”

_So do we_ , _pal_. Sarge conjured the memory of the moleskine notebook safely stowed away in their backpack. It was, perhaps, a mutual obsession. _So do we_.

“Get to the point,” Bucky said as they were fast approaching their destination, torn between the desire to run and to listen about Steve.

“Got somewhere to be?” Sam asked, noticing how Vanya kept glancing at the exits (and occasionally the window behind them). “The point is, he misses you.”

_Tell us something we don’t know_.

“It wouldn’t kill you to talk to him.”

_It’d kill him to talk to us_.

“Or just give him a little gift. Doesn’t have to be expensive. I know he’ll love anything you give him just because it’s _you_ giving them.”

They all felt pleasantly warm inside. One of them remembered Steve’s smile at the barista and wondered if he’d smile the same way if they gave him a present.

“I’ll think about it,” Bucky promised, even though he’d already made up a decision that the others easily agreed on.

Without waiting for a response, they shouldered on their backpack and strode out the open double doors with renewed purpose.

—

“No,” Bucky automatically said.

Sarge pressed a palm to the display case and stared wistfully at the lingerie. “C’mon, Barnes. Ain’t you curious to see him in this getup?”

“Я заинтересован,” [10] Vanya shared, confirming there was not only one, but _two_ kinky bastards that made up James Buchanan Barnes.

“No means no,” Bucky said with more fervor, even as he felt his resolve gradually dissipating the longer he looked at the lacy undergarments. “He doesn’t need that.”

“Romanoff gives us a card with all the money in the world and you ain’t gonna use it?” Sarge scowled at their reflection in the glass. Their face reformed into Vanya’s emotionless expression.

“дешево.” [11]

Eventually, after a heated debate on the pros and cons of buying Steve lingerie (the most prevalent being: _just imagine America’s reaction_ and _he’d like it_ ), they settled for something neutral, yet practical: Avengers socks.

“There should be Winter Soldier ones,” Bucky had said excitedly as they examined a pair of Captain America socks. “We could match with Steve.”

“We ain’t a hero, Barnes.”

No one had said anything for a while after that.

“So,” Bucky said as meticulously as he was wrapping the weird assortment of presents. “How does everyone feel about pizza? And a box for Steve?”

“No pineapple,” Sarge said with a full-body shudder. He ignored Bucky’s annoyance at him for almost jeopardizing the gift wrapping process. “Fruit don’t belong on pizza.”

“Помидор это фрукт.” [12]

“Out of all the shit you can’t remember, you can remember that?” Sarge asked, knowing damn well it was a low blow. Bucky paused to grimace.

“Я помню Стива,” [13] Vanya said quietly.

“Anyone can remember Steve. Punk leaves a piece of himself in everyone.” The corner of their mouth upturned in a small, crooked smile. “Dunno how he’s still got some pieces left to give.”

“He has a big heart,” Bucky said as he finished wrapping, topping it with a glittery ribbon. Tada. “There’s more than enough to go around.”

“Don’t forget stupidity.” Sarge tucked the presents under the crook of their arm. “Then again, all of his dumb decisions led up to here. He’s healthy, won’t die from pneumonia, n’ surrounded by people he loves. What more can I ask for?”

“We want to be there for him, too,” Bucky said as they ditched their dingy apartment and headed for Steve’s cozier one.

“Всегда.” [14].

The bus ride was silent for once.

—

“I think he’s insulting your skills.”

Vanya reassessed the perimeters for the nth time, deterred by the lack of security measures. He tipped their head like a confused, murderous puppy, studying the room again. “Ничто́.” [15]

“Sam probably told him he’ll have guests,” Bucky reasoned, more to spare Vanya’s feelings than anything. Curiously enough, Vanya didn’t seem insulted.

“Sure would explain why the front door’s unlocked. Thought he was itching to get robbed.” Sarge set the wrapped boxes and the vase of flowers down onto the kitchen island, rearranging it to centralize _his_ gift. “Reckon we should leave a note?”

“No. He’ll know.” Bucky raised their eyebrow. “Who else is going to leave him gifts?”

“Dunno. He’s plenty sweet on that Sharon Carter dame.” Sarge made an unflattering face at the memory Vanya brought up of Steve suddenly kissing her at the airport. “That came outta nowhere.”

“Я поддерживаю его,” [16] Vanya said, albeit a bit bitterly. “Его счастье мое.”

“We’re not _courting_ him,” Bucky reminded them with a solemn frown. “We’re just...apologizing for two years without contact. The longest we’ve ever been apart is seventy years, and that’s because he was sleeping beauty.”

“Ever consider he might’ve spent those two years romancing Carter ‘stead of losing sleep over his best friend who don’t even remember him much?” Sarge deadpanned, all in one breath. “We’re doing him a favor, Barnes. He ain’t letting us go ‘cause we’re a part of his past. Vanya’s shrink says that ain’t healthy.”

“Мы не здоровы для Барнса,” [17] Vanya remarked unhelpfully.

“Shut your chops,” Sarge barked. “We’re literally here ‘cause Barnes needed some way to cope with HYDRA’s bullshit n’ he couldn’t handle the trauma alone. Bing bang boom, me n’ you’re born.”

“Quiet,” Bucky said agitatedly.

“Nah, I ain’t done talk—”

“No, quiet _so I can sneak out_.” Bucky gestured urgently at the window, where Steve was returning from a mission with hurried strides. The uncontainable hope on his face was unbearable to look at.

They shuffled out onto the ledge just as Steve flung open the door. He paused at the doorway, freezing with a hand braced against the threshold as his gaze landed on the gifts.

With a pace on par with a snail, Steve approached the kitchen island, afraid that if he were to make a wrong move, the presents would flee. Carefully, he trailed his fingers over one of the flowers, lightly caressing the dainty petal.

Once he realized it wasn’t a figment of his imagination, Steve gathered up the presents and cradled them to his chest. The baby blues of his eyes were tender with tears, and the soft red of his lips were curled in a sad smile.  

Oh, no. That wasn’t the intended effect. They fucked up—royally. Their far distance method had been going swimmingly until that fateful meeting with Sam—

“Buck, you, you didn’t have to,” Steve murmured as he loosened his death hug, handling the boxes like they were precious. (Bucky disagreed. In all ninety years of their life, they couldn’t find anything as precious as Steve’s smile). “It really means a lot to me.”

“We wanted to, punk,” Bucky whispered on the other side of the window, the only physical separation between them. In spirit, he liked to think they were connected, their souls always able to reunite under any circumstance. He wasn’t a religious man, but if there _was_ some higher entity out there, he wanted to thank them for Steve’s existence.

“Are you going to just stare at them, or actually open them?” Sharon Carter teased as she listed against the doorframe, peering curiously over Steve’s hunched form. “Carnations. Good choice.”

Steve laughed wetly. When he spoke, his voice was nasally and cracked at the end. “Getting there.”

As gentle as the flutter of a butterfly’s wings, Steve undid the ribbon and peeled off the wrapping paper. He held each one to the light and—he was  _happy_. His eyes were bright and moist and  _happy._  Mission success. “They’re wonderful. I’m, I’m touched.”

“Paint, flowers, chocolate, plums, and...did he seriously just wrap up pizza?” Sharon rattled off an invisible list, obviously confused about the weighted meaning underlying each present. _Alright, fess up. Whose jealous thought was that?_

“He always knew how much I wanted colors,” Steve elucidated as he traced the brand’s logo with a thumb, eyes faraway with nostalgia. “All I could afford back then was pencil and charcoal. I mean, I was red-green color blind, but I know he would’ve helped me out.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled at the flowers. “He’s old fashioned. Da—women, loved stuff like that. He used to joke that he’d get me some since I never could, but then the war happened and...anyway, I don’t think he remembers that.”

They didn’t, but now they were going to. Another thing to mentally file to their “Steven Grant Rogers” cabinet.

“The plums are new.” Steve plucked one from the bowl, weighing it in his palm. “I think he just discovered the magic of plums and wanted me to have some. I…” He swallowed harshly, placing it back in its spot. “I don’t think HYDRA...I doubt they let him try some.”

“Правильно,” [18] Vanya said tightly. “Сливы хороши. Стив хорош. Стив заслуживает сливы.”

“The pizza’s for lunch. I’ve got no idea how he knows I haven’t eaten yet.” Steve served a slice for Sharon and himself, taking a nibble before catching sight of his last gift.

“I wonder if…” Steve removed the lid of the chocolates and all three of them felt weak in the knees at his low timbre laugh. “He remembered. I can’t believe he remembered.”

He angled the chocolate box to allow Sharon to see, his smile radiant and all encompassing. It was like the fucking sun: warm, brilliant, life-sustaining. Have to look away or your eyes’ll hurt.

There were empty spaces where three chocolates were supposed to be. Steve closed the lid with a sort of wonder to his eyes.

“He knows I hate peanuts.”

—

Life was great—until it wasn’t.

They’d been faring so well. It’d been approximately 912 days since their last HYDRA incident. No murderous impulses or thoughts about completing their mission or dreams of killing Steve.

It was a rookie mistake to drop their guard.

They’d been browsing the aisles for high quality shampoo when the hairs on the back of their neck prickled and their muscles tensed like bracing for an impending fight. 

“Желание,” [19] said a chilling, authoritative voice. Vanya instantly snapped to attention, the shampoo bottle in their hand long forgotten in lieu of moving to the pocket knife clipped to their belt.

_The hell you waiting for_?! Sarge demanded when their hand simply hovered over the weapon. _Get it n’ stab the bastard_ _already_.

“Ржавый,” [20] The HYDRA operative went on steadily, oblivious to their internal struggle. Or maybe he was fully aware of it and was exploiting their lack of cooperation. Either way, he was a dick and a half. 

The man’s eyes were triumphant when their hand lowered from the knife until the appendage fell limp to their side, like this was a competition and rebooting the Winter Soldier was the prize.  

_Shit_ , _we’re losing him_ , Sarge thought with a surge of panic. Their fear only heightened when they realized they didn’t have control of their limbs anymore. _Vanya ain’t fully there_. _Fuck_! _We’re gonna lose our freedom over some damn soap._

_Not happening_ , Bucky thought back, before projecting all his willpower to Vanya. _Vanya, you don’t have to be their weapon. Remember what you wanted_? _Peace_? 

None of the words were getting to Vanya. All except the trigger words, of fucking course.

“Семнадцать.” [21] 

_Do not comply_! Sarge yelled, now desperate. _Do not fucking comply_!

“Рассвет. Печь. Девять. Добросердечный. Возвращение на родину. Один. Грузовой вагон.” [22]

“Я готов отвечать,” [23] Vanya readily responded.

It was haunting how easy it was to slip into the Winter Soldier identity. 

_Fuck_.

—

_Is that Gucci_? _Golly_ , _why didn’t we come back sooner_? Sarge thought sarcastically as they were stripped down into their birthday suit and then changed into their signature combat gear. _You’d think we’d be immune to cold showers by now_.

_That’s the least of my worries._ Bucky wanted nothing more than to close their eyes and blot out their surroundings, pretending to be in a better place. (Preferably with Steve. Any place was infinitely better if Steve were there).  _You think they’re using the chair_?

_It’s a damn miracle if they ain’t._ Sarge warily eyed the Torture Seat at the corner of their peripheral vision. _Fuck_ , _if they do,_   _are we gonna be erased_? _Is_ Stevie _gonna be erased_?

Like most things, he didn’t know.

Vanya’s hands moved as if they had a mind of their own, performing assigned tasks perfunctorily. Buckles were fastened, knives were sheathed, grenades were stocked, etc.

Yet there was an indecipherable sensation curling inside the pit of their stomach, like the moment before a dog was unleashed into a fighting rink. Something akin to...anticipation?

_Fuckers conditioned him like a goddamn dog._ Sarge wanted to spit on the HYDRA agent’s face as she fixed a mask over Vanya’s jaw. No, it wasn’t a mask. It was a _muzzle_. _Ain’t no man existing who willingly enjoys being forced to hurt someone._

The bionic arm purred as it was restored to its former “glory,” once more branded with the red Communist star. Even with the Soviet Union gone, they still wanted to make a statement: _the Winter Soldier belongs to HYDRA_.

And then the unexpected happened.

Vanya clamped their flesh hand around the handler’s wrist and redirected the tool—straight into the man’s eye socket.

Without pause, he wrenched it free and jabbed the sharp end into the nearest person’s neck until her garbled screams dissolved. It distinctly reminded him of a warbling turkey.

Vanya whipped out a pistol and fired in rapid succession, watching as HYDRA agents dropped like flies and piled at the entrance. They were tripping over their own colleagues, slipping from the pools of red that stained the granite floor.

He noticed it matched the red of his star, and he absently touched it. It was more pronounced now, vibrant with a translucent red sheen from the blood coating it.

It reminded him of water colors, of Steve, and he frowned.

There was a stinging sensation in his abdomen. Vanya glanced nonchalantly down to investigate and found that the handle of a knife was jutting out from his torso, buried to the hilt.

Ah, that explained it.

He returned the knife by driving it through the owner’s midsection. 

When the last agent fell, the room was silent; almost like it were waiting for him to speak. So he spoke.

“Xаилъ ГИДРА.” [24]

—

Getting stabbed was a pain in the ass.

Or, should he say, in the _stomach_? He chortled at his own joke—and immediately regretted it because blood had spurted from the movement and gushed through the cracks between his fingers.

Clearly, the injury was more serious than he initially thought.

Vanya searched his mind for the other two, prompting for Steve’s location. Surprisingly, they weren’t there to inundate him with their incessant chattering. Usually, _he_ was the one who wasn’t there.

His mind was quiet—as quiet as the torture chamber had been.

It was of no matter. He’ll simply find Steve on his own. He would turn New York upside down if he had to.

It took bleeding on three welcome mats and stagger-running from a concerned grandmother before he finally found him.

The man on the bridge opened the door. Vanya knew, without glancing up, what expression he wore.

It was the look of heartbreak, of devastation. It wasn’t the first time he’d looked at Vanya that way—and it certainly wasn’t going to be the last. This facial expression was reserved specifically for Vanya.

Not for Sarge, not for Barnes. It was always for Vanya.

It was the same expression as the one on the helicarriers, before the inevitable fall into the depths of the Potomac River.

“Steve,” He breathed. It’s the first English word he’s said in decades, and yet it brought comfort and felt as familiar as his own name.

“Bucky,” Steve said, sounding winded and breathless. His jaw was slack with disbelief, like he couldn’t believe the White Wolf was on his doorsteps. He looked like he had a thousand words to say, but all he settled on was a simple, “Hi.”

In his short list of good things (unbeknownst to the other two), Vanya augmented that Steve is one, and how Steve carries such care and adoration in his eyes for Bucky is another.

He knows that look isn’t intended for him. But Steve doesn’t know that, and Vanya doesn’t have the incentive to bother telling him.

“Sorry,” He said, when he wanted to say so much more. _Sorry for hurting you_. _Sorry for hurting your friends_. _Sorry to the families of all the people I’ve killed._

Sorry, sorry, sorry.

Steve assumed Vanya was apologizing for his now bloodied rug and shook his head no. “Buck, I don’t care about that right now. You’re here, and that’s all that matters.” 

Suddenly, Steve—confident, dauntless Steve who would fight the sun and the entire world for his beliefs—was avoiding his eyes, head ducked submissively to unsuccessfully hide cheeks flushed a crimson color. 

Was he ill? Strange. The current weather was temperate and he seemed perfectly functional. Vanya reached out with his metal hand to offer coldness for mitigating Steve’s fever, but Steve misread it as an unvocalized desire to link hands.

“Okay?” Steve asked as he threaded their fingers, pressing their palms together with a nervous smile. Vanya experimentally squeezed, and Steve returned the gesture with a small, happy noise. 

He didn’t see why not.

He also didn’t see Romanoff stationed at the doorframe until she’d loudly cleared her throat of mucus. Steve startled. “Sorry to interrupt you lovebirds, but Barnes is still bleeding, Steve.” 

“Right. Guess I got carried away,” Steve said as he sheepishly rubbed at the nape of his neck. Vanya skimmed Steve’s knuckles with a thumb and watched with fascination as the red from his cheeks traveled down to his pale throat. “Uh.”

“I’ll get the medkit. You two get comfortable,” Romanoff declared, throwing a ‘subtle’ wink at Steve before she disappeared down one of the hallways. As soon as she was gone, Steve turned back with an exasperated look on his face. 

“Ignore her,” The human embodiment of a tomato said. Vanya found it endearing enough to want to check if the red reached his chest. “She’s always trying to set me up on a date. She thinks you’d make a great candidate.” 

“Yes,” Vanya agreed as his world tilted on its axis, before passing out cold.

—

His head pounded, feeling like a fucking toothache in his brain.

“Need a pint of some hard liquor to deal with this damned head toothache...headache,” James grumbled irritably as he beat at his temple with the heel of his flesh hand, like he can smack the migraine out if he hit the right amount. 

As if on cue, a cup was placed in his palm. Thank god almighty. He mumbled a quick “thanks,” before downing the glass in one go, waiting for the soothing, telltale burn of alcohol.

The burn which never came, because this ain’t no alcohol. 

“‘Tis water,” He told the cup bringer, who, upon closer inspection, looked an awful lot like Steve. Got the dorito proportion down and everything.

“Yup,” Steve’s doppelgänger chirped with amusement like the majestic eagle he was. “Sure is aych-two-oh. Feeling better?”

James nearly dropped the cup ‘cause holy fucking shit, that was, in fact, Steve, and not his long lost twin. There was no mistaking that rumbling voice.

So he goes MIA for a bit and returns to his pal camping beside his unconscious body?

Sure, why the hell not.

“Feeling better now that I’m talking to you,” James answered earnestly as he pushed himself into a sitting position on the too-soft-futon (how can anyone sleep on this shit?). “What about you, Stevie? How’s my best guy?”

Oh. _Ohohoho_. Steve was full on _blushing._ It was a really, _really_ good look on him. “M’fine, Buck.” 

And then his shit-eating grin collapsed because really? Bucky again? Jesus, that’s all this guy ever seems to think about. “I ain’t Bucky, pal.” 

Steve’s face crumbled, and James immediately wanted to recant his words. “I thought you’d...you don’t rem—” 

“Nah, I remember,” James interrupted, mainly because he couldn’t tolerate the sadness in Steve’s voice any longer. “I just ain’t Bucky. Haven’t been me since the war.”

“What?” Steve’s eyebrows furrowed together in confusion. He was looking at him like he’d just executed a perfect pirouette.

“You hit your head or something?” James cupped the back of Steve’s head with the cybernetic hand to hold him, palpating for injuries with the other. Steve sucked in a breath, but otherwise didn’t move.

“Or something,” Steve murmured after a heartbeat, bringing up his hands to frame James’ face. Slowly, telegraphing his movements to allow him time to withdraw, Steve leaned until their foreheads touched.

When James tried to catch his eyes, Steve’s softening ones fluttered shut with a wince, as though it wrought pain to look at him (the irony was uncanny). “Bu—James.”

“Yeah?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper. With their close proximity, he could count Steve’s long lashes. It’d be swell if Steve would look at him, though.

This was intimate, new territory, and he knew he should probably pull away because this conflicted with his “just pals” mentality, but fuck it. He liked it.

He was beginning to understand why Bucky was so smitten.

“I missed you,” Steve admitted, finally opening those damned gorgeous eyes. His pupils were dilated, blown up, sucking him in like black holes, and...yeah, no wonder he ain’t a poet. “I thought I lost you again.”

“I’m here,” James assured him as he mirrored Steve’s hands, gingerly holding his jaw. Steve gave him a pained smile and tilted his head, placing a delicate kiss to James’ palm. “Ain’t planning on leaving your punk ass. End of the line, pal.”

“Better not, jerkface,” Steve sussarated against his hand, words contrasting with the dreamy expression on his face. “Everyone’s getting real tired of me talking about you.” 

“Funny you say that.” James absentmindedly stroked Steve’s cheekbones with a thumb. “I was getting real tired of Barnes always yapping about you. Swear I wasn’t like that for Dot, n’ you know how crazy I was about her.”

“James,” Steve said as he drew back, a crease forming on his forehead. He felt the urge to smooth it down with his thumb, but Steve’s serious tone gave him pause. “You _are_ Barnes. I don’t…”

“Forgot we ain’t ever met properly.” James released Steve to offer a hand, the grin on his face spreading easily like butter on a saucer. “Sergeant James of the one-oh-seventh. I’d introduce you to the other fellas, but fuck ‘em. Just want it to be you n’ me right now.”

“Steve Rogers of the Avengers.” Steve firmly gripped his hand, mouth a tight line. “James, you’re not making any sense.”

“World full of aliens n’ superheroes n’ I ain’t making sense?” James quipped before he could stop himself.

Steve lifted his shoulder in a half-shrug. 

“Alright.” James stretched his arms until his joints popped, before slumping back against the cushions. “Keep your ears open, ‘cause I ain’t repeating myself.” 

“I’m all ears.”

“Good. You know that little voice in your head?” James gesticulated vaguely. “Your conscience, or whatever?”

Steve gave a curt nod. 

“Now imagine two more, n’ they’re both annoying shits.” 

Steve usually had his thoughts written on his face, all for the entire fucking world to see, but at this moment, it was guarded and calculating—his Captain America facade. 

“So there’s two more of you,” He said after a long while, enunciating each word deliberately. 

“Yessir.” James gave a mock salute, snapping his index and middle fingers to his forehead. “Barnes’ the one you grew up with. From the moment you met to when he’d enlisted. Then it’s me ‘till the train. Then it’s Vanya.”

”Vanya.”

“Yeah. You call him the Winter Soldier.” James contorted his face like he’d just swallowed a lemon whole. “You’ve met him more times than I’d like.”

“Oh,” is all Steve said, face still unreadable. 

“It’s a lotta unpack. I get it.” James grinned good naturedly, clapping him on the shoulder. “But hey! At least there ain’t thirty of us. Christ, imagine that.” 

“I can’t even begin to imagine three.” Finally, Steve dropped the Captain America act and made a constipated look. He wasn’t sure if that was an improvement or not. 

“Good news, pal. I can show you.” James waggled his eyebrows, like he was offering to show Steve a little something else. “Easier than telling, that’s for fucking sure.” 

“You don’t have to,” Steve insisted, merely for the sake of insisting. James can see the curiosity in his eyes, the fucker. 

“Nah. Can’t keep this away from you forever.” With that, James shut his eyes and concentrated on drawing Vanya out of his haven. 

Vanya reopened their eyes, and, with great effort, met Steve’s gaze. For a solid minute, they only stared at each other, no one daring to speak. 

It was Steve who broke the awkward silence. 

“You look tired,” He observed as Sarge’s exuberance faded to Vanya’s lackluster, noting the sudden appearance of dark crescents rimming his haunted eyes.

“Я устал,” [25] Vanya confessed, feeling and looking every sense of the word. If exhaustion were a person, he’d be it. “Все время.”

Sarge translated.

Steve exhaled a slow, long breath, and then smiled dolefully. His voice was gentle, understanding. “It’s okay. You can rest now. I’ll fight for you.”

“Нет, я не могу, пока не искуплю свои преступления.” [26] Vanya’s face clouded over, like the murky water of a once free flowing river.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Steve was too quick to defend him, judgment most likely compromised by his affections for Bucky. “You didn’t have a choice, Vanya.”

“Был ли это мой выбор или нет, не оправдывает, что случилось.” [27] 

Steve cricked his jaw, knowing it was futile to attempt to refute him. He opened his mouth to speak, but Vanya beat him to the punch.

“Steve,” He said, voice going soft, “Я хочу искупить, потому что ты заставляешь меня хотеть быть хорошим. Я думал, что не способен на искупление, но вы показали мне, что даже таких людей, как я, можно спасти.” [28] 

Sarge hesitated, then translated. When he finished, Steve looked like he was fighting back tears. 

Of course. He was always fighting back. 

“God, I wish…” Steve blinked rapidly, pausing to wipe at his eyes with the length of his forearm. “I wish I could do more for you.” 

“Вы сделали более чем достаточно.” [29] And for the first time in seventy fucking years, Vanya smiled. And it was entirely genuine. “Спасибо.” 

“You’re always welcome.” And for the first time in history, Steve smiled at Vanya, no longer bearing the heartbroken expression he’s been accustomed to having directed at him. “I’d do it all again if it means you’ll be happy.”

“Sap,” Bucky said, and the sudden change was disconcerting. It was like standing up crazy fast and consequently getting dizzy.

Somehow, Steve knew it was Bucky. They didn’t require an introduction, or even a greeting. It just felt like old friends catching up.

“Dope.” Steve draped an arm around Bucky’s shoulders and affectionately patted his back, eyes slipping closed in contentment. “How you been, Buck?” 

“How’ve _you_ been, Stevie?” Bucky countered as he brought his arms around Steve’s stupidly broad shoulders. At his touch, Steve tried to make himself smaller, despite being built like a brick house, to tuck his head under Bucky’s chin. 

They didn’t fit like they used to, but they tried to anyway.

“I’ve had my ups and downs.” Did Steve just nuzzle his neck, or was it his imagination? Either way, it thrilled all three of them, coursing through their body like a tidal wave of warmth. “This is definitely one of my ups.” 

Where did Steve get his cheesy lines? And where can Bucky get some?

Someone thought about UPS, the package delivery company, and Bucky snorted. 

“What?” Steve eased out from under Bucky’s head to fix him an ‘upset’ expression. “I’m trying to be romantic, Bucky.” 

“Romantic, huh?” Bucky kissed the ‘upset’ from Steve’s face, lightly pecking Steve’s eyelids, nose, forehead, cheeks, and the corner of his mouth, strategically avoiding that particular area. “How’s that for romantic?”

“Not bad,” Steve said, the little shit, before he surged up to mash his lips against Bucky’s.

They’d had seventy years to fantasize and prepare for this moment, and yet they were thrown off kilter. It was nothing like they’d imagined—reluctant, slow maybe, but nothing quite like  _this_.

Steve kissed the way he fought: rough, with vigor. Their teeth clacked together, and it hurt like a sonuvabitch, but it was perfect because it was entirely _Steve._

Bucky, Sarge, or Vanya—he couldn’t tell who had done it—groaned and deepened the kiss, guiding it into a less painful makeout session. Their lips glided from all the saliva, gross and slippery, but they couldn’t care less.

It was getting a little _Brokeback Mountain_ in here.

Sarge slipped their tongue between those plush, luscious lips to explore, and Steve gasped, jerking away to slap a hand over his mouth like they had done something scandalous, uttering out a muffled “ermighad.” 

Vanya swiped their tongue over their tingling lips, still tasting of Steve, and Steve’s wide eyes tracked the movement.

“Steve?” Bucky asked tentatively, worried that they’d overstepped their boundaries and now Steve didn’t want to kiss them anymore because _someone_  had gotten too eager (which was a shame because they liked it a _lot_ ).

Steve was panting heavily, lips bruised and pretty and they _really_ wanted to kiss him again. “Sorry, I’ve, I've never kissed like that before.” 

Fuck, that made them hot and bothered, shooting straight to their groin.

Wait, before? Who’s he kissed before? Oh, shit, they’d forgotten all about Sharon Carter. That killed their boner.

“You’re already taken,” Bucky reminded him as they retracted their arms from Steve, as if touching him burned.

Steve slowly removed his hand from his mouth to reveal an inscrutable smile. “Yeah, I am.”

The words felt like a swift punch to the gut. A hard hit from reality. A passionate kiss from Steve.

Vanya released a litany of curses in rapid fire Russian, plotting their best method of escape while Sarge inwardly panicked and Bucky outwardly gawked at Steve.

As if sensing their internal turmoil, Steve huffed out a laugh and gently threaded his fingers between theirs—warm intertwining with cold. “I’m taken by a jerk. Three jerks, actually.”

“We’re taken by one giant bitch,” Sarge grumbled, and Steve smiled that sun smile.

—

There are three parts to James Buchanan Barnes. The first is Bucky Barnes. The second is Sergeant James. And the third piece to the slightly less fucked up puzzle is Vanya.

All three were a part of Steve’s life. Although they tended to disagree on a plethora of things, they could all agree on one thing: they loved Steve.

Currently, they were drinking steaming, hot chocolate (Steve’s recommendation) at a cafe. Sarge exhaled a sigh of gratification and balanced their feet on top of the table. “This is the life.”

“I could get used to this,” Bucky said as he lifted their cup to their lips, only to be stopped by Vanya. “Don’t destroy it this time.”

“Солнышко,” [30] Vanya said as he turned their head, and they simultaneously melted at the sight of Steve speed-walking towards their seat.

“You can say that again,” Sarge said as he tried to take a sip of the beverage, missing their mouth completely.

Steve chuckled at their antics, before swooping down to smooch their cheek, his dark eyelashes tickling their face. “Hey. Come here often?” 

“We only come here to see a blonde punk. Tall, stupid, handsome fella. Can’t miss him.” Bucky hefted up their drink like they were toasting. “And also for the drinks.” 

Steve pretended to look around at the customers, tapping at his chin in contemplation. “Hmm, I don’t think I see him.”

“You don’t?” Bucky feigned surprise. “Aw, that’s too bad. I wanted to introduce you two. We’re going steady, but I don’t know if he’s sweet on us or not.”

“He is.” Steve reached out a hand to adoringly trail his fingers along theirs, crow feet wrinkling the corners of his eyes. “I know he is.”

And then he plucked the drink from their grasp.

Instead of calling him a thief, Vanya called him a term of endearment again.

“Солнышко.”

**Author's Note:**

> translations:
> 
> [1] He is my peace.  
> [2] He has good taste.  
> [3] White Wolf.  
> [4] Beautiful.  
> [5] He is not using the shower.  
> [6] He is here.  
> [7] No one says my name.  
> [8] We do?  
> [9] It is done.  
> [10] I am interested.  
> [11] Cheap.  
> [12] A tomato is a fruit.  
> [13] I remember Steve.  
> [14] Always.  
> [15] Nothing.  
> [16] I support him. His happiness is mine.  
> [17] We are not healthy for Barnes.  
> [18] Correct. Plums are good. Steve is good. Steve deserves plums.  
> [19] Longing.  
> [20] Rusty.  
> [21] Seventeen.  
> [22] Daybreak. Furnace. Nine. Benign. Homecoming. One. Freight car.  
> [23] I am ready to answer. (In Civil War, it’s subtitled as “ready to comply.”)  
> [24] Hail HYDRA.  
> [25] I am tired. All the time.  
> [26] No. I cannot until I atone for my crimes.  
> [27] Whether it was my choice or not does not excuse what happened.  
> [28] I want to atone because you make me want to be good. I thought I was incapable of redemption, but you showed me that even people like me can be saved.  
> [29] You have done more than enough. Thank you.  
> [30] Sunshine.


End file.
